For Those in Peril on the Sea
by Lahiwe
Summary: "Believe me, Anne, one thing you will never have to worry about is proving yourself worthy. Your only challenge is choosing which dragons to conquer." Anne rarely loses her way, but when she does, Gilbert is always there to help her find it again. Set during Anne's House of Dreams, soon after the death of Anne's first child.


**A/N: I just wanted to thank everyone who reviewed for pointing out the factual errors in this. At first I was super embarrassed since I am a huge fan of the series and would like to think I am an expert on all things Anne ;) I haven't read this particular book in a long while (even though it's my favorite) so I apologize for anything that might have thrown you out of the reality of the story. Everything is fixed now and I hope it brings a smile to your face and the warm fuzzies to your heart.**

A bright April sun shone down on the green hills and meadows of Four Winds Point as two figures made their way amblingly through a sloping grove of evergreens. One figure, a tall, slender young man with close-cropped dark curls and an exuberant countenance led the way, carrying an overfull picnic hamper with both hands. The other, a lissome young woman whose shining red hair lay in a simple braid down her back, lagged behind, absorbed as she was in observing the landscape and bending down to pick wildflowers. The young man, Dr. Gilbert Blythe, as he was known in the village nearby, turned back every so often to check on the progress of the wayward nymph, his Anne-girl, and his brow furrowed every time she paused to gaze towards the sea. He knew that she was in love with the sea in all of its many moods, but rather than adoring, her present countenance bespoke a yearning wistfulness. For a moment, he began to doubt himself. The picnic had been his idea. It seemed like years since he and Anne had last picnicked together, years since they had shared a carefree solitude with none but the sky as their witness. When they'd first arrived in Four Winds there were picnics and walks and dreams aplenty, all nestled in an out of the way, serene patch of earth where the grove of pines began to meet the shore, and the sandy hills overlooked the ocean. Anne had found the spot not too long after they'd settled into the House of Dreams and had immediately declaimed its virtues to Gilbert.

"Gil, you wouldn't believe it," she'd exclaimed breathlessly, a fervent pink in her cheek. "It's like the Lake of Shining Waters and Lover's Lane all in one. I never imagined such a place, where forest and sea mingle so beautifully. And it's off all by itself, too, which is what I had been hoping for. As much as I am coming to adore Captain Jim and Miss Cornelia, running into them while we two are on a stroll rather murders the romance, doesn't it?"

So it had been then. But time, that familiar menace, had intervened, bringing with it calls and office visits and surgeries and church and dinners and new friends and visitors, trials and victories small and great, leaving their little spot seldom visited. And then there was the turning point in their fledgling lives, the link that had broken and threatened to bring their lives crashing down around them—their daughter, Joyce, dead before anyone could truly rejoice over her birth. Gilbert could see her pale blue skin and tiny, lifeless body as if he were still holding her in his arms. Joyce had opened up in both of them a deep, aching sense of pain and loss, one that they could not seem to express even to each other, kindred spirits though they were. Gilbert often wondered how he could miss something so terribly that he had never truly had, then realized that he was missing what he _could _have had—a family; a living, breathing incarnation of the love that he and Anne shared. Though he prided himself on looking at all manners in a logical, scientific manner, he often felt that the spirit of Joyce—or perhaps of their unfulfilled happiness—hung over their house o' dreams like a spectre. This was chiefly evident in Anne: a change had taken place in her that had made her nearly unrecognizable to Gilbert, who knew her better than anyone else. She, the vibrant star that had lit up the lives of so many, was lifeless, or as near to it as a living being could be without being physically ill. Her smiles, her bell-clear laughter, her bountiful imagination had all retreated, leaving behind a pale, hollow wraith, who went through the daily motions of life perfunctorily and turned away from him at anything approaching an intimate caress.

He had forgotten how much Anne was a part of his own life-force, but now it was brought to the fore once more; as she declined and slowly began to detach herself, he could feel himself wasting away as well. The townsfolk were deeply concerned for both of them, even Gilbert's retired uncle Dave, who had offered to return to the practice for several weeks to give Gilbert a chance to rest and comfort his wife. That was when he had gotten the idea for a picnic. At the time he had merely dismissed it as a childish fantasy from the days they'd still been an ignorant boy and girl playing at being adults. Back then there had been only love between them, not a dead child. But the idea stuck in his head persistently as he mended fences, rafters, and stair rails—all things he barely found time to do as a happily busy doctor and that had fallen into neglect in his current melancholy. Foremost in his mind was the day he'd taken her to the wild apple tree he'd found and nurtured, 'way back in their Redmond years. How they'd feasted on those wild, tart apples! How happy they'd been! If they could somehow gain a part of that happiness back, he was sure that their lives would eventually return to a sense of normalcy. Finally he gave over to the idealist within him and suggested it to Anne as she sat at the west window doing some extra mending for Leslie Moore, who had had to take on much more outside work now that her farm was in danger of being sold away. Anne's reaction was unexpected—she's startled, as if awakened from a trance by an electric shock. She turned to him, her gray eyes shining with a strange intensity and whispered, "I think that would be a lovely idea, Gilbert." Already he could tell that she was changed ever so slightly, which lifted his spirits as nothing else could. Upon hearing of their plan, Susan, their maid and friend, had spent an entire night preparing a "feast of good things" of Olympian proportions, and made vague references to "making sure no nosy folks nor naughty children" wended their way toward Anne and Gilbert's sacred spot. And here they were.

The beauty of the day was surreal, and Gilbert permitted himself an Anne-ish thought: perhaps Nature, who always favored lovers, had, in her wisdom, crafted the soft salt breeze and the cool freshness of the pines especially for them. Once again he looked back to see if Anne was following behind. She was—in fact, she was looking out on him from the crest of the hill. She smiled when their eyes met, a smile he hadn't seen in so long—a warm, liquid smile that brought to mind fervent passion mingled with unrestrained joy. He smiled in return and opened his arms to her, wanting suddenly to have her close to him.

"No, Gilbert, do come up here. I know it's not our regular spot, but I do believe some woodland god or well-meaning romantic friend, I can't decide which, has made a little bower for us," she said with a laugh in her voice, pointing to an obviously cleared area where someone had arranged pine needles, soft ferns, and long, feathery grasses atop a poorly-concealed goosedown comforter. Flower blossoms and clover had been clumsily, but lovingly scattered about. It bordered on ridiculousness, yet it touched Gilbert—he had always had his doubts about practicing in such a small village, smaller even than Avonlea, but the love they'd found here was worth all of it.

"I suppose when Susan said keeping folks from meddling, she really meant all folks except her."

"I'm only surprised that she could bear to have one of her goosedown comforters get dirty," Anne mused affectionately. Perhaps, Gilbert chuckled to himself, even the most fastidious of aging housekeepers knew what it was to be in love.

The quilt was spread and the food promptly tucked into. A year ago they'd have been chattering away, he about his patients and all of the juicy bits of gossip he gleaned from them; she about the antics of the villagers she came in contact with daily. Now there was a silence, not altogether uncomfortable, but still strange, punctuated by the breaths of briny breeze.

"What are you thinking, Anne-girl?" Gilbert's tone was gentle, but probing. A keen listener would have heard his unspoken question—_where have you been, Anne?_

"I was just thinking about the sea—how dark and cold it would be if one were to get caught out in the middle. It seems majestic from here but if I were to be thrown into those waves, it would be merciless. I would be drowned in an instant." She paused hesitantly, and Gilbert waited, slightly taken aback. It was unlike Anne to make such morbid observations. But then, was anything the way it had always been?

"Gilbert, do you—like it here?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean do you like living here in Four Winds?" She kept her face in a neutral expression and brushed absentmindedly at an errant curl.

"Well, I've thought about it a lot, as a matter of fact. It certainly has its disadvantages. But for all the minuses, I think I've come to love the pluses so much that the minuses don't matter. I love that I wake up to the sound of gulls and the sea—it makes me feel so alive, the sea does, the way a sleepy town like Avonlea never could—not to disparage our hometown, of course. I love the good people of this town and how they've been so kind to us. I'm doing what I've always dreamed of—fixing people up, easing their pain, giving them a little bit of hope. All the things you do, but in my own way. And the joy that I feel when I've really helped them, Anne…! Like when we saved Widow Simmons's only son from that bad bout of pneumonia. I know it would have driven her mad to have lost him, so I tried out that new procedure that I showed you, the one in the _Medical Association _journal. I've never seen anyone so thankful. It was the best payment I've ever received." He paused. "But I think that what I love most about Four Winds is that it will forever be the place where I began my life with you." He took her hand in his and found that it trembled. All while he talked she had been staring at him, and now, her eyes were bright with tears.

"Anne, what is it? What's the matter?"

"Gilbert, I could never have asked to know a better man than you."

"That means a lot, Anne, but it doesn't explain why you're crying." He brushed away the tears that welled on her cheeks with a gentle sweep of his thumb, and she sighed.

"I'm in the depths of despair, Gil, and the worst part is that I really shouldn't be."

"I think you have as much right to be in the depths of despair as anyone," Gilbert responded. "You're too hard on yourself."

"This time I'm not. I love Four Winds as much as you do, perhaps even more. Avonlea will always hold the highest place in my heart, but I never thought I could find a place so dear to me as this place! It is all I could ever have dreamed of in a home. But _I _am not all I could have dreamed of. I'm afraid I've let myself down terribly. For one thing, I've wanted so badly, ever since I was able to read, to be a writer. But my life in the past four years has made it so easy to push it to the side. I think of all the other things that I could do, that I must do, and it seems dreadfully impractical. I feel like I am squandering all of the hard work I put in at Redmond, and all that Marilla sacrificed for me, but it just isn't the most important thing in my life anymore. And then when I got older I wanted to be a mother—and when I saw Fred and Diana and their little Fred and Anne Cordelia, I just knew that it was one of the things that I was put on this earth to do. I was so happy when I found out about Joyce—the happiest I've ever been in my life. And then…" She paused, he gaze far away and stricken. Her lips were pressed together so tightly that they had turned white. "But plenty of women lose their children, and they go on. Many women die in childbirth, so I'm really very fortunate. I'm fortunate in so many ways—I have you, and our home, and our friends—but Gil, _I just never thought it would happen to me!"_ She heaved a great sob, the most sorrowful sound Gilbert had ever heard her utter, and something broke inside him—he felt his own throat clench up, his own eyes grow hot. Anne collapsed into him and he stroked her back gently, tears of his own spilling into her hair. If only he had known how defeated she felt! As if Anne, the light of so many people's lives, could ever be a failure!

"I suppose I will have to face the grim reality, Gilbert. Life never happens the way you want it to. I've lived long enough to realize that," she said bitterly.

Gilbert scoffed. "Face the grim reality? Whatever happened to 'scope for the imagination'?"

Anne winced as if he had hit her. "How can you say that after what I've just told you?"

"How can _you _give up so quickly? We still love each other, don't we?"

"Of course we do," she responded, more than a little reproachfully.

"Then more children will come. And even if we can't have children of our own, we can still take in a child. A child like you once were," he said softly. "But Anne, no matter what happens, don't lose yourself because of it." She was silent for a long time, and Gilbert watched her, anxious, but hopeful that there would be a break in the clouds. He knew the real Anne was in there somewhere—but would she come back?

Finally, she spoke slowly. "I just wish that I could do the things that I've worked so hard for. I wish that I could be… I just want to be worthy. That's all I want, but I can't seem to be even that."

Gilbert took her chin firmly in his hand, pressed his lips over hers and kissed her purposefully, as if to contradict her words with the force of his love. And this time, she didn't turn away. She stayed. She moved with him, until they were moving as one, sharing the same breath. Finally, he broke away, his eyes determined.

"Anne, you are the worthiest person I have ever known. And before you say anything, I'll have you know that most everyone who's met you shares my opinion. It's not just me who loves you, Anne. We all do. Do you know how many people's lives you've changed, Anne? I can name at least forty or fifty that you've affected directly. Can you imagine Matthew and Marilla without you? Paul Irving? Katharine Pringle? Phillippa Gordon? Leslie Moore? I can guarantee that all of them would have led miserable lives without you in them." _To say nothing of me, _he thought but did not say. "And I know for a fact that none of us loves you because of your manners or the way you cook or how good of an entertainer or a wife you are. It's because you're a good person, Anne. An inspiring person. Do you know how rare it is to meet people like that? Most people one comes across are greedy and disingenuous and hypocritical and cruel—and even those who are friendly certainly don't extend that friendship to all they meet. I know I am guilty of that. But you…!" He became quiet. "I just wish you could see yourself the way everyone else sees you."

Anne's head was bowed, her face turned away from his. "No one has ever told me that," she said in a low, almost inaudible voice.

"I suppose we all thought you already knew. But believe me, Anne, one thing you will never have to worry about is proving yourself worthy. Your only challenge is choosing which dragons to conquer," he said earnestly, tracing her face with his fingertips. In answer, she wordlessly repeated his earlier gesture. Gilbert tasted tears on her lips and her tongue, but somehow, he could feel that they were different; not sad, but thankful. He savored them.

"Thank you, Gilbert," she whispered moments later. He said nothing, only took her hand in his and squeezed it. They stayed that way, facing the sea, watching the steel waves crash against the rocky shore.

"And just so you know, if that miserable sea ever tried to swallow you, I'd find a way to get you back out again."

She smiled up at him rapturously. "You already have."

The blissful day soon ended, and life went on. Gilbert resumed his practice in Glen St. Mary, and Anne took up her old role as the young Mrs. Dr. Blythe, with a bit of a change—she was slightly more impractical, slightly more impetuous, and slightly more willing to say what was on her mind. Secretly, the whole village breathed a collective sigh of relief. They had begun to be quite worried for the charming doctor and especially for his wife. Even the most cantankerous, dyed-in-the-wool of them was glad for the spirit of love that they had brought. They were so grateful, in fact, that they looked past Mrs. Blythe's new outbursts and flights of fancy, though Miss Cornelia remarked more than once that Anne was becoming "more and more of a Methodist every day." By summer's end, Anne and Gilbert had reached the end of another bend in the road, this one more treacherous than bends past, and were starting upon a new one—a path that brought a familiar, soft glow into the young couple's eyes, happy even as it was mingled with sadness. This time, they were ready for whatever end might come.

Given Anne's gradual restoration, Gilbert wasn't exactly surprised when she knocked softly on the door of his study one day, holding a large sheaf of papers and wearing a shy smile. He wasn't surprised, but he was uplifted.

"These are just some odds and ends I've been collecting while we've been here. It's mainly just sketches of village life, but I also decided to try some poetry recently. I was thinking of publishing it as a collection—that is, if anyone will take it. And I wanted you to read it over. You've always been so good at telling me what parts are best left out and which ones are actually good."

"Of course I'll read it, Anne. In fact, I'll start right now." Immediately she blushed and muttered something about having to help Susan with dinner, which Gilbert knew meant that she didn't want to be there while he read it. He wondered why she was so self-conscious about her work, even with him, until he read the first piece, dedicated _"to my closest of kindred spirits, Gilbert Blythe." _It was a poem about storms and darkness and lost paths and fear, and the quiet voice that spoke calm in the midst, the steady hand that guided the way, the beam of light that illuminated the path ahead, until all the darkness and storms were gone and all that was left was peace.


End file.
